


Second to the right, and then straight on till morning

by givelourrylove



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Peter Pan Fusion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Harry Styles is Wendy Darling, Hurt/Comfort, Louis Tomlinson is Peter Pan, M/M, Magic, Neverland, Peter Pan - Freeform, Peter Pan AU, TinkerBell - Freeform, a bedtimestory, kind of, shes named different in here, this is innocent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 04:02:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2010228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givelourrylove/pseuds/givelourrylove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Such a beautiful boy, everyone had always said. Handsome, friendly, honest, graceful, gentle. Everything anyone could ever look for in a friend, a husband, a father. But Harry’s future shone way brighter than his mind.<br/>The boy with the green eyes that were once so wide and grateful for what the world might show him, had lost his joy, somewhere on the journey of growing up. He did not know when he had exchanged excitement into sadness or why.</p><p>or</p><p>Peter Pan AU, where Louis is Peter, Harry is taken over by sadness and willing to leave everything for one last smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second to the right, and then straight on till morning

**Author's Note:**

> Happy fourth anniversary, boys!  
> To you all - take this as an anniversary gift and an apology for abandoning everything.  
> ((It is 0.16am the moment I am writing this, I'm GMT+1, it is still the boys' anniversary, thank you very much.))
> 
> I have never put so much effort into a story, which is why I'm having my fingers crossed so all of you enjoy it. I was told - and I noticed, myself - that there are far too less Peter Pan AU's in this fandom, so I thought, why not create one myself.
> 
> For the record, I /have/ used original phrases from J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan (I actually have the copy right beside me this moment), I marked what chapter the phrase is in. [Barrie; Peter Pan; not (!) Peter at Kensington Garden's]
> 
> I am currently collecting ideas for how to continue 'if you hold me, that's okay', I am useless.  
> But let me tell you that I spent the last month on this - especially the last night - and I would love to know If you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Also, I am hoping that this is adressed to a relatively wide audience since I'd love to hear everyone's thoughts on it (no mean ones please, I am sensitive ha)
> 
> However, this was inspired by Barrie's actual work Peter Pan, several tumblr posts I am going to have to find the link to again and GINA WHO IS A PRICK FOR GIVING ME SO MANY IDEAS, MAN, YOURE THE REASON IM MAKING A SECOND CHAPTER
> 
> Everyone enjoy and leave thoughts and kudos xx

Harry was at the tender age of six when his beloved mother had first told him about the boy. Harry would sit on his bed quietly, listening with such eagerness; his mother had never seen him thus before. His green eyes would widen comically and his lips would spread into a stunned grin.

Mother did not know, or expect, the effect the stories she was telling would have on her little boy. He would try and stay awake for as long as possible, which unsurprisingly turned out to be eleven o’clock in the night, due to what a tired little boy Harry was.

Countless of times, mother had found him asleep on the windowsill, clutching the window frame like he was awaiting someone to come and take him away. Mother had smiled at her child, what a lovely way it was to sweeten his childhood.

Father had only laughed at his son, what absurd ideas had come to his mind. There were days where he was even worried about Harry spending his afternoon at the windowsill, staring off into the bitter grey sky of London, hoping for something else than a bird to appear between the clouds.

“But mother, I don’t want to go to bed just yet! Peter has not yet come!” Harry cried, the pink corners of his lips pulling into a desperate yet beautiful frown.

Mother smiled at him. He was such a beautiful boy, predicted to be a very handsome man in the following years.

“He will, my dear, but you cannot stay awake to wait for him, or he will not come!” She said softly.

“He ought not come, if you are going to be a bad boy and wreck your mothers nerves!” The frightening yet very familiar voice of father hollered and he shortly after appeared in the nursery next to his daughters bed, who’d sit in bed very peacefully and read a book far too complicated for her age.

“Oh darling, don’t speak to Harry like that.” Mother scolded and promptly pushed father out of the nursery. She had had rather enough of her husband’s idea of a pleasing childhood.

Before mother had managed to forcefully shut the door behind him, father pointed his fat finger at Nana, the dog, who temporarily assisted as the help, and shouted, “He ought not come, this Pater Pen, ought he, Nana?” To which the poor dog jumped from her comfortable seat beneath Gemma’s bed and barked.

“George!” Mother exclaimed and before she could even blink, Gemma had already jumped out of bed to calm Nana.

The little forgotten boy Harry did now finally crawl under his crisp sheets, an unhappy pout glued to his beautiful features.

“Oh mother, say, is it true what father said? That Peter will not come? I am good, mother. Believe me, I can be a good boy.” Harrys voice was drowned in sorrow mother could only relate to.

She smoothed out her skirt and went up to kiss her children’s foreheads and cover their shivering bodies with blankets.

“Harry, my dear, you are a good boy. Such a beautiful, good boy. Peter would delightfully visit you.” She said, as she approached his bed and gave him a kiss.

“Say, Harry, why is it so cold?” Mother turned ‘round, checking the furnace, before noticing the window wide opened.

Shaking her head, she closed it, pulling the curtains closed as well, despite Harry’s protests to leave them, as well as the window open, so Peter could come and feel welcome in this house.

“This is the coldest night of the year, Harry.” Mother had answered. “I don’t want you and Gemma to catch a cold. We can leave it open another time, alright?”

The little boy just hummed grumpily in disapproval and turned around in his bed, his back facing mother, to which she only sighed.

As beautiful and wonderful, honest and friendly – god, Harry was such a friendly little boy – he was, mother did not always approve all of his hopes and expectations towards the boy she told him about. Sometimes there even were days, where she regretted telling him. Those days were her absolute worst. Mother felt terrible, whenever the thought of regret crossed her mind.

But it happened. Mother had often scolded herself for telling her son about the boy, Peter Pan, who experienced so many adventures, and took so many kids with him to show them _Neverland,_ because she knew he was not real. Or at least, she thought so.

* * *

 

An unfortunate, literal decade after this very night of Harry lying awake in bed, twisting and turning and occasionally – every few seconds – checking the window for any shadows that could be Peter’s and Tinkerbell’s, Harry was at the horrifying age of sixteen, and on the very verge of growing up.

He and Gemma had both moved out of the nursery ages ago. Gemma was still reading books, yet now they were appropriate for her age. Harry had stopped to leave the window open, which brought relief to his mother and father, but depression and sadness to himself.

Months had passed, since the last time he looked out of the window. Years, since the last time he looked into the sky. Harry’s dark mind was on the verge of abandoning Peter Pan.

Another day had passed, it seemed to Harry that days were just floating by, and he did not care to make the effort to stretch out his hand and pull the passing days towards him.

Such a beautiful boy, everyone had always said. Handsome, friendly, honest, graceful, gentle. Everything anyone could ever look for in a friend, a husband, a father. _But Harry’s future shone way brighter than his mind._

The boy with the green eyes that were once so wide and grateful for what the world might show him, had lost his joy, somewhere on the journey of growing up. He did not know when he had exchanged excitement into sadness or why.

Seemingly, he was being taken apart. Little pieces of him were removed, with every forgotten memory of his childhood. Sadness had become a bigger part of him every time mother had yelled at father once again, every other time Nana had to sleep outside in the garden because she had barked at night.

Sadness took his _mind_ , when Gemma had left the nursery to sleep somewhere else – somewhere without a child like him around – and sadness had eventually taken his _heart_ , when his mother had stopped kissing him.

It was a cold night – just before Christmas – and the sky was as bitterly grey as usual – but how could Harry know; the curtains were drawn closed. The door shut. Any efforts to keep the screams and shouts, caused by his parents’ dispute, from creeping inside Harry’s room had failed.

The voices seemed to crawl inside underneath the door, dampen his walls and eventually fill the air. Months ago, Harry had lost count and interest in the fights and arguments. But it would be ridiculous to think that at this point he had stopped caring as well.

These fights, these harsh voices, they were starting to eat him alive. Harry felt so abandoned, so alone. Gemma had left several months ago and when she did, it felt like she took all the leftover love and warmth with her to Manchester, where she’d study and read more books and which Harry would forever call a damned place.

After all, this became just another night of declared loneliness and silent tears. Except for Harry was not alone this time, but how could he know; he did not look out the window, did he?

Some might say it is ridiculous for a boy at the sweet age of sixteen, to see the jump from a building as the only way out of his misery, but let me tell, Harry did think this through. He was a smart young man.

“If I jump, and I will land on my feet, be alright, then I’ll run. Run off. To Gemma, maybe. Alright, Nana?” To the dogs delight, Harry had decided to keep her in his room for the winter time. He could not bear to see her freezing her tired paws off in the merciless cold.

The old lady looked up from where she’d been fast asleep next to Harry’s bed. She gave him a tired look. Maybe it was reassuring. Nana had been such a good maid for all these tough, cold and loud years, and she had not changed since. Only her gait had become slower, her brown eyes more tired and her ability to hear less sharp.

Harry could not mind less though.

“And… and if I will not land safe” Harry took a breath of the air filled with arguments and angry voices. Neither you nor me have ever breathed more suffocating air – I may tell you.

“…then that is fine as well.” He eventually finished.

Harry had wished for this to be a fairy tale, or a movie, something better than reality. Because if it would have been, Nana would have crawled over and laid her heavy head on his feet to keep him from moving. The deafening arguments and mindlessly thrown words from outside would have silenced and Harry’s parents would have come into the room to tell him he’d be alright. Mother would have kissed him again.

He wouldn’t have ripped the curtains open to stare into the pale, cheerless night. He wouldn’t have stepped on the windowsill with quivering legs, gripping the wall so tight he left little scratch marks. Harry wouldn’t have opened the window, breathed the cold December air in.

_But as you may  know, reality hunts us all. Reality doesn’t cherish any similarity with fairy tales or movies._

It was cold, nearly cold enough to change Harry’s mind about everything. One degree less would have changed everything.

Harry breathed in again, refilling his lungs with freezing air instead of the depressing fog from inside. The cold was more welcoming to him than anything he had felt in the past year.

“I reckon’ I will see you around, Nana.” Harry had turned around, eyeing the only creature that was somewhat worth staying for.

He was about to end himself – maybe. There was an alternate plan in case the fourth floor would not turn out as high and dangerous as it seemed.

_A flock of sparrows passed._

His left foot was dangling over the ledge, the rest of his body soon following. There was not even a brief moment of regret when he fell, except for maybe leaving the window open to leave Nana in the cold.

The scary second in which Harry’s body was to collide with the ground, did not happen. In fact, something had caught him.

Another second later – in which Harry could have already been dead if it wasn’t for the _something_ – Harry had realised it had not been a something that had caught him falling, but a some _one._

Not caring about who that someone was, Harry latched onto them. Was it relief he felt? Relief that the upper hand might not have been agreeing with his decision? Relief that _he didn’t die?_

Harry’s shaking body jumped, when his feet reached something hard, he was back on his windowsill again. But what – or _who –_ had brought him there?

Harry was having difficulties seeing, thick tears dropping down his cheeks and onto the concrete sea beneath him, where he could be lying right now. The suffocating heaviness and consequences of his previous decision had found a sudden way in his head.

His numb body was still lying on the windowsill, his mind somewhere else; somewhere no one would find it. Harry’s long legs were folded into his chest, his posture seeking comfort he would not find.

In attempt to keep the hot tears from spilling, he pushed his fists into his eye sockets. Nonetheless, dry sobs had started to escape his mouth, his lungs seemingly trying to get rid of all of their content, yet at the same time trying to refill again. _Air, water, anything._

By the time Harry was dry heaving, not only the loneliness had reached him, but also the cold. It was unbearable, but Harry was too numb to notice.

* * *

 

It was the moment in which the boy had stepped on the windowsill, when Louis had seen him. The boy had his gaze fixed on the beautifully depressing London sky – there wasn’t a time of the night where London’s sky did not take Louis breath away, un-literally, of course – so Louis jumped beneath a narrow chimney to hide from the boy. Staying afloat in the sky would have given him away. Louis roughly pulled on Louvrettes wing, signalling her to hide. He wondered, what he was doing out on the ledge. At this time of the day!

Louis decided to keep watching him. Needless to say, his curiosity did not _get_ the best of him – _curiosity had always had the best of him._

More seconds passed, as well as some _darlings._ (The lost boys had always laughed at Louis for calling them _darlings,_ but Louis shook them off, threatening to cut their tails, _Nobody on this island must question Louis’ knowledge_ (or point out his tendency to use third person on himself), _you ought to believe me boys, these_ darlings _mean no good at this time of the year!_

However, Louvrette, due to her immunity to the threats (she was not in possession of a tail), did not hesitate to whisper into Louis’ ear, how _they_ – humans, _adults_ (Peter shivered in disgust) – indeed called these birds differently.

Louis pulled her wings, and then decided to add ‘swallows’ to the list of _Neverland’s Forbidden Words_ right after ‘parents’ and ‘undergarments’.)

The light from behind the boy made his hair – his curls – shine like a halo, like Louvrettes wings. Louis had started to wonder whether the boy had fallen into a pot of fairy dust. Louv would not be pleased, fairy dust was a precious rarity (despite that she had more than enough of it).

Then, Louis had dared to move his figure a little, to peak past the chimney. His eyes narrowed, when he saw the boy – the possibly fairy-dust-drunken boy – lean forward, dangle his legs across the edge.

Louis did not even have a spare second to blink before he plunged down the roof himself, spreading his bony arms in order to catch the boy, who was blindly falling down.

Their bodies collided, _softly,_ they came to a stop about six feet above the heartless concrete. Louis flew _up, up, up,_ and set the boy back on the windowsill again, momentarily disappearing on the roof right above him, the fear – _no, not the fear, Louis did not fear anything –_ the _thought_ of the boy doing it again, falling again, still wrapped tight around his beating heart. _A nameless fear clutched at this heart._[[Barrie; Peter Pan; chapter 2 _The Shadow_ ]](http://www.amazon.de/gp/product/0147508657/ref=s9_psimh_gw_p14_d0_i1?pf_rd_m=A3JWKAKR8XB7XF&pf_rd_s=center-2&pf_rd_r=0FEX3GMJMM4F5Q48HPRN&pf_rd_t=101&pf_rd_p=455353807&pf_rd_i=301128) He could see Louv, still behind the chimney from before, dimming the brightness of her wings in shock.

Louis held his breath, not that he had to, no one could ever hear him breathing, but it felt right. He listened carefully, part of him hoping he would hear the window shut, meaning the boy had saved himself, partly _wishing_ he would still find him sitting there.

 _He was fascinating._ Louis wanted to touch him. He wanted to touch his hand, take it in his and pull him _up, up up._ He wanted to get a close look of his eyes, his eyelashes, see if the shades of his eyes were as breath taking as London’s sky. But mostly, he wanted to touch his curls, see if his thin fingers would sparkle with fairy dust when he threaded them through his thick strands.

Louis’ whole body was itching, stirring, his limbs were vibrating, he needed to move. The invisible strings that held him back on the roof snapped, when he heard loud sobs from beneath him. _Sobs, heaves, cries. Loud, desperate, quiet._

His strong heart gave in, he easily swung himself up in the air and kept his body steady in front of the boy, who crouched pitifully on the wooden surface. Louis kept his legs steady on _nothing_ (literal nothing. _We_ – humans, adults – tend to call it ‘air’).

Everything was silent for a second, like Louis’ breath. Then another _sob, heave, cry – loud, desperate, quiet –_ ripped the silent air apart. Both of the boys flinched. Louis, because the sound scared him a little – no, not _scared_ , it just _surprised_ him.Harry, because he finally felt the cold pinch at his skin, like sharp needles and blades slicing him open.

 

Louis was brave.

 

(Let me tell you about his bravery, his fearlessness, his selflessness. Less of that. Now, if our hero would be present, listening to somebody tell his tales, he surely would proudly expose his chest, smirk at the heroic words used to describe him. Louis was selfish, arrogant and too aware of his ingeniousness. _It was humiliating to have to confess that this conceit of Louis was one of his most fascinating qualities.  x_ Nonetheless, he was a hero.

His favourite story of himself _must_ be the one of him saving the mermaids. Or of him striking ol’ Captain Hook with his own cannonball. Great stories, but now is the wrong time to tell.)

Louis was brave. He approached the boy.

“Oh, boy.” He said.

The boy’s head snapped up, his sobs, heaves, cries – loud, desperate, quiet – silenced immediately, eyes widening in _astonishment? Perplexity? Fear?_ Louis watched. The boy had very nice eyes. Pure green, like Louvrettes dress. Sparkly, like someone had lit a fire inside them.

“Who – who are you?” He knew exactly who he was.

“You’re Peter, right? I knew it. I always knew. _Peter Pan._ ” Louis tried to smile. It was hard.

He heard a little bell ringing beside him, Louvrette had sat down on his shoulder.

 _Where are your manners, Louis!_ She rang.

He gave her a puzzled look. Louv pointed at the boy in anger, her uneasy temper showing off.

“Oh, my bad!” Louis said. “Someone must have stolen my manners! Don’t you think it was the lost boys again, Louv?” She rolled her eyes. “What’s your name, my love?”

 

Louis was sweet.

 

 “Harry.”

“What was that?”

“My name is Harry. I’m Harry.”

He came closer to the boy, _Harry,_ while shoving Louvrette off his shoulder. She rang, turned bright red, like the sunset at its prettiest, and flew off.

“I’m not Peter. I’m Louis.”

“Where is Peter?”

“I ought not tell you, my love.” Louis smiled. It was honest. He ought _not._

“Why did he never come?”

Louis didn’t understand.

“I waited.” Tears stung Harry’s eyes. He fought them. Unfortunately, Harry was no good fighter, not even close to being one, unlike Louis.

“For what?”

“Peter. You. _Anyone._ ”

“I cannot tell you what happened to Peter. In fact, I don’t know, myself.”

Harry stayed silent. He crawled back inside, unsure of whether to keep the window open or just shut _Louis_ out. To pretend none of the previous happenings _did_ happen. To suffocate himself under the blanket, hand idly stroking Nana’s sticky fur and waiting for the deafening screams from outside of his room to be stopped by a slamming palm he would dedicate his tears to.

He left the window open.

“I waited for you. All of these years, _Peter._ ” Harry spat his name out in disgust, which hurt Louis. But where did this pain come from? Louis had checked his arms, his legs, his chest. He could not find the source of this ache. There was no blood, no scratches, no cuts.

Louis did not know what to say. Harry paced around the room quietly. He blew out candles, closed drawers, turned the key in its hole over again to lock twice. Harry petted Nana, who was obviously troubled by the sudden appearance of a strange boy.

Harry imagined father, how he would scold Nana for being such a bad guardian. He imagined mother, how she would try to comfort Nana and argue with father about how good she looked after Harry and Gemma before she got so old.

A harsh tear escaped his eyes. Harry let it drop the ground, hoping for it to go unnoticed, which it did not.

 

Louis was attentive.

 

“I – uhm – I apologize, Harry.” It was the first time he had said his name and Harry felt different.

“Why are you here?”

“I saved you.” Louis liked to talk about it. It was heroic, after all.

“That was not the reason you came here.”

“It was not.”

 

Louis was honest.

 

“Why are you here?” Harry had turned around now, facing Louis, for the first time properly.

Harry’s eyes glided down Louis’ small body like your hand glides through water. And let me tell you, he felt the same fascination towards Louis as said boy did towards Harry.

Louis was small, tiny even. Maybe two third of Harry’s size. Harry did not notice until now. He had tiny hands, narrow shoulders, small hips, short legs. He definitely was something.

His soft hair – which Harry swore, only waited to be touched – was swept across his forehead, a little green hat sat like a crown on top of the mess. Louis’ skin was so flawless, clear, clean, like it was painted and the painter chose the softest brush to draw, like he did not even dare to place his brush properly.

“Your mother.”

“What about my mother?”

“I am here because of her. In a way.”

Betrayal and anger rose up in Harry’s chest. And sadness. Overwhelming sadness that crept up his feet to his head like the voices from outside the room did every night.

“You know her?”

“Peter did.”

“Well, she closed her window _years_ ago. And mine, too.” He snapped. He tried to decrease the anger he had started feeling towards mother, the person who had loved him the most. _Had_ loved.

She knew him. Mother was well aware of the existence of Peter Pan. Nonetheless she closed the window. Her window. His window. How could she dare?

“She forgot him.” Harry’s voice turned soft and sad. _“How do you forget someone?”_ The past sixteen years formed into tears and had gathered in Harry’s eyes and his life was about to spill over the corners of eyes, ready to run down his pale, gaunt cheeks. Never had Louis heard such a broken voice, never seen _such a broken boy._ Only himself, maybe.

“ _You_ didn’t.”

“I didn’t.”

“And here I am now.”

 _“You’re like Peter, aren’t you?”_ Hope, if not wonder, found itself in his voice.

Louis nodded.

“Why did you fall?”

“Because I’m lost.” It shocked Louis, how cold-blooded he had said that.

“Harry, I know a lot of lost boys and-“

“Why did you catch me?”

“I encounter lost boys at their worst points.” Louis smiled. Harry didn’t.

“You should not have caught me, Louis.”

“I’m very glad your mother told you about Peter.” The urge to change the subject had taken over. As you could assume, Louis was trying hard to suppress… anger, shame, fear (indeed, it was fear) at the mention of a mother.

“I was too. Why did you never come, Louis? I waited. I waited for you. Years and years. Winters. Summers. It was all I wanted. All I needed. I needed you to come, Louis. I needed you.” _I still do._

_I’m thankful for you being here now. Don’t leave._

What a creature I am to tell you that all of this went unsaid.

Louis did not know how to reply, how to react, _how to breathe._ He had never faced any of this. He remembered nothing. Not even what Louvrette said to him only hours ago. Time passed differently for him. _You could not accuse Louis of forgetting or remembering. Of losing or winning. Of crying or laughing. Of asking or staying silent._

 

“Why are you crying, Harry?”

“I don’t know.”

 

Every step Louis took felt wrong. _Wrong, wrong, wrong._ But he wanted to soothe. He wanted to show Harry he _could_ soothe and that he cared. Louis did not want beautiful boys crying. He did not want anyone crying. Especially not Harry. The moment he’d stepped in front of Harry made him realise how _small_ he was. He wanted to say ‘ _different’,_ but they were not.

“Don’t cry, Babyboy.” Harry wanted to protest. “You’re too dainty to be crying.”

 

Louis was honest.

 

A bony, soft and pale finger traced under Harry’s eyes. He closed them. A tear slipped. The finger caught it. Harry watched the droplet fade into Louis’ skin, like it just swallowed it and with it, the pain, the numbness. _It swallowed sixteen years._

The pixie haired boy thoughtlessly slid his hands behind Harry’s ears, his cold, yet somehow warmly tingling palms settled on Harry’s sharp cheekbones.

“The lost boys always say how much Peter talked about your m-mothers hair. Her beauty. He should not have liked her. _That way._ Where did you get your beauty, Harry? Is it hers? Was she really as ravishing as Peter had claimed? Oh Harry, your curls. Are they your mothers?”

Harry stilled.

“Can I give you a kiss?” His mind was void.

“I – What’s a kiss, Harry?”

Neither of them had backed away. They chests stayed half an arm length apart.

“It’s when you…” Harry leaned forward, cautious. He placed a soft kiss under Louis’ left eye. “But on the lips.” He spoke soft, his eyes were hooded despite that he was wide awake.

“On the lips?” Louis spoke even softer than Harry. He spoke softer than he spoke to _darlings_ and _heartmergers_ (‘butterfly’ soon followed ‘swallow’, ‘parents’ and ‘undergarments’ on the list of _Neverlands Forbidden Words_ after Louv had tried to chasten him once more. _“Butters don’t fly, Louv. Don’t be silly, that is insane. Or have you ever seen a flying_ butter _in your life?”_ She shook her head. “ _Thought so.”_ )

Louis shifted in the air very gently, only a few inches, to bring his head on Harry’s height. “Yes, the lips.”

And then Harry leaned in and kissed Louis. On the lips. He was not moving, only slightly pressing his mouth on Louis’. Closed eyes, closed mouths. Harry had wondered if Louis had closed his eyes, too. He was too scared to look.

Louis wondered if it was the kissing that felt like floating, or the floating. He felt like he weighted _nothing._ Louis _did_ weigh nothing, but in this very moment, he could feel that he did.

It was too soon when Harry pulled back. Louis whined.

“That is nice, Harry. Very.” Harry wondered if it was a blush that had crept onto Louis’ pale cheeks.

“Have you never been kissed?”

He wanted to lie. _Of course I have been kissed. A thousand – no – a million times already! I have done this before. Of course I have._

“No”

“Not even by your mother?”

“I don’t want a kiss from my mother. I don’t- there _is_ no mother. I don’t need one. No one needs a mother.” Hurt stretched across his soft face. Hurt took over all of his features like the black sea. Hurt that mirrored the ugliness of a bitter fifty-year-olds soul.

“Of course there is a mother.” Harry desperately tried to soothe, unintentionally only making it worse.

“No, not for _me_. Mothers are useless any way. All they do is…”

As badly as Harry wanted to know what it was, that mothers did, he stayed silent. Louis was thankful.

“Harry?”

“Yes.”

“Can you give me a kiss again?”

Louis _definitely_ blushed. He rubbed his face in order to make it fade. Needless to say, it did the opposite.

“Yes. You are very pretty, Louis.” He did not answer.

“Is it okay if I call you that?”

“Nobody ever calls me that.” _Oh, but your mother must have._ Harry held back. Louis looked very calm saying what he had said.

“That is weird. Because you are.”

“Please kiss me again.” Harry did.

It was soft. The kiss was like _Harry_ , which meant it was right.

“Have you ever been kissed, Harry?”

“Not by a boy.”

“By girls?” Louis felt like he was becoming unaware of his weightlessness again. A greedy feeling had emerged in the pits of his stomach, growing higher and wider. It made his insides feel _wrong._

We all know that feeling too well, don’t we? All of us could point their finger at the sign reading ‘jealousy’ in the middle of the room, as soon as we would feel the feelings branches spring.

But Louis had never _been_ jealous. Everyone was jealous of _him_ ; he was never the jealous one. (Would _you_ want to be like that?)

“By my mother.”

Louis sighed, his head flopped down against his chest and his hair hung deep into his eyes, he was on his feet again. The _nothing_ beneath his bare feet being replaced by the floor.

“You know, a mother loves you. She takes care of you, when you’re sick-“ “I can take care of myself.” “S-she knows what to do when you are sad. She takes you to bed. She kisses you goodnight.” _Not forever._

“Can’t somebody else do all this, Harry?”

“Someone like who? Who could do all this?” Harry was feeling dizzy from all the standing and all the crying. From how the slickness of the walls did not seem to be from the screams anymore, but from his own tears and restlessness. He sat down on the bed. Nana looked up.

“You?” Louis sat, too. His eyes looked weak, unlike before.

“Me? Louis, I cannot be a mother!”

“Why not? You can love, can’t you? And you can take me to bed. And… and you-“

Harry mistakenly identified Louis’ insecurity as simple hesitation. It was not.

“You- I like your kisses.” Harry’s head snapped up. This was not what he had expected to hear. “Are you happy? Is that what you wanted to hear? I like your kisses, Harry.”

Frustration had taken over him following the pace of flow superseding ebb.

“They are nice. Better than… better than fighting ol’ Hook! And certainly better than a mother.”

Mother had always taught Harry to be gentle, understanding, careful. With his words, his hands, his heart. She taught him to kiss his sisters forehead when she was crying because of a boy, to fondle Nana’s paw before she had to go outside to sleep, to take someone’s hand when he felt like something was wrong.

Harry took Louis’ hand. He held it softly, not daring to fully wrap his hand around it, it looked so dainty and breakable, Harry wondered how he could have fought all these fights with such fragile hands.

“Harry, can you come with me?” And wouldn’t Harry have tried to _end it all_ only some minutes ago, wouldn’t Harry have thrown himself off the window, wouldn’t Harry be surrounded by this – _literally_ – killing loneliness, this perpetual _dysphoria_ , this feeling of being abandoned, forgotten and worthless, he would have said _no._

Make up your mind if it was _faith_ or just plain _luck,_ I believe it might have been both.

 

“Yes.”

 

Louis should not be surprised, who could say ‘no’ to an invitation to _Neverland_ after all. But it had not been an invitation to come, it was an invitation to _stay._

“Well, then, love! Come with me! Come away, come away!” Previous doubt had vanished. Louis’ mind only had space for one emotion at a time.

He had already jumped off the bed and strode through _nothing_ towards the open window, causing poor Nana to jerk awake and waver around. Harry had gotten hold of her and gingerly lifted her onto his bed, for the first time in sixteen years. Nana looked guilty.

“It’s fine, old girl.” He gave her woolly head a gentle stroke and a kiss and then ran his fingers across her soft paw.

“Take care.” He had whispered. Nana felt the small teardrop that had wet her paw. She gave him a tired look. It was more reassuring than a holding hand or a significant kiss. _It was Nana._

Louis had begun to pace around the room, pulling Harry’s sleeve, pinching Nana’s leg, playing around with the curtains. “What is taking so long? _Neverland_ awaits us!”

How could Louis understand? He was a lost boy, somewhat neglected-ly broken, without a mother. He could not wait.

Harry had looked about the room, his tear-brimming beautiful eyes searching for something, for a memory to hold him back. He had not found one, so he reached for his booklet and a hat to put on and gave Louis his hand.

“You are going to love it.”

Harry left sixteen years behind.

**Author's Note:**

> This was fourteen pages on word, font size 11, everyone. Have a good day, I cherish every single one of your existences.


End file.
